Captain

On the southern side of Seireitei's inner ring, the Thirteenth Division's new base.

The land assigned to the Thirteenth Division was a little larger than the plot Shuichi had initially taken a liking to.

The pond and gazebo were only part of the front courtyard. Behind them lay a vast stretch of open ground and several half-ruined old buildings. Those buildings had once been part of estates repossessed from noble families that had died out. Half the courtyard walls had collapsed, most of the roof tiles were shattered, and the pillars still bore traces of smoke and fire.

Fortunately, the timber had not completely rotted away, and the main beams had not broken. With some repairs, they could still be used.

Shuichi delivered the notice personally. He was not wearing a captain's haori, but that rose-red sword sheath was highly recognizable.

He stood at the entrance of the old barracks, looked at the grimy Thirteenth Division members, and said, "Pack your things. Prepare to move into Seireitei."

No one questioned him. Not because they trusted Shuichi, but because the other divisions were moving too.

News that all of the Gotei 13 would relocate into Seireitei had long since spread among the divisions.

Now that Shuichi had come to deliver the order, they obeyed.

The relocation did not proceed quickly.

There was no captain and no vice-captain. The few surviving seated officers discussed how to divide the work—who would move the furniture, who would transport the documents, and who would be responsible for the custody and handover of the Zanpakutō.

Their efficiency was low, but they did not make any major mistakes.

Shuichi watched silently from the side. Sometimes, he helped check the supply lists. He did not issue orders, lecture them, or do anything beyond the scope of "helping." The members reacted indifferently to his presence, neither rejecting nor approaching him.

Reconstruction began.

The foundation of the new base needed leveling, the old buildings needed repairs, the pond needed dredging, and the gazebo needed new tiles.

The Thirteenth Division members split into several groups, each doing its own work.

Shuichi specifically assisted with command coordination and supply allocation, ensuring they faced no logistical difficulties at all.

No one called him "Captain." They merely thought he was a quiet kid from the First Division who had come to help.

Yet morale within the division remained low.

It was not that they were slacking off. They were simply keeping their grief buried inside, afraid to show it.

The Thirteenth Division had less than half its prewar strength. Their captain had died in battle, and familiar comrades had become memorial tablets one after another. Even now, they needed someone who could give them a goal—whether a captain or a seated officer. But the seated officers were in no better condition than the rest of them.

One morning, Shuichi appeared at the entrance to the base wearing a captain's haori.

The white haori had long, wide sleeves that swayed gently in the morning breeze. Against the white fabric, the rose-red hilt was especially eye-catching. The haori concealed most of it, revealing only the hilt, guard, and part of the sheath.

His hair was a little longer than before the war, hanging over his forehead and nearly covering his eyes.

One member was squatting beside the pond, scrubbing tools. The moment he looked up and saw Shuichi, his hands stopped. His eyes fixed on the white haori Shuichi wore, moving from the collar to the sleeves, from the sleeves to the hem, from the front of his robes to the Zanpakutō at his waist.

"Captain?"

His voice was quiet, carrying an incredulous, cautious test, as if confirming he had not mistaken the person before him, as if confirming he was not dreaming, as if confirming that white haori truly belonged on this person.

Shuichi looked at him and nodded slightly.

There were no unnecessary words, no impassioned inauguration speech, no boasting about his Bankai or abilities, no promise to mourn or surpass Saizo Sakigane. There was only a nod, small but steady.

The member rose from the ground. As he straightened, his back became just a little straighter than before. The change was so slight it was almost impossible to see, but those working beside him would certainly feel it.

The people nearby gradually stopped what they were doing. Some turned around, some raised their heads, and some looked down from the scaffolding. Everyone's eyes fell on Shuichi's white haori, then on his face. No one spoke, no one cheered, no one applauded. In that silence, they all realized: The kid who had been helping with our logistics all along is our new captain?!

There were no further conversations or interactions.

But the division members were visibly stronger and more energetic.

No one said, "Now that the new captain is here, we need to work harder." No one admitted they had suddenly found their motivation because they saw that white haori.

But facts were facts. After Shuichi appeared at the entrance in a captain's haori, the Thirteenth Division's reconstruction speed increased by far more than a single level.

They began talking to one another while they worked. At lunch, people sat together and shared pickles and rice balls brought from home. During breaks, some leaned against newly built walls to nap. Some began to smile—the first relieved smiles since the war.

Shin'ō Medical Institute...

When Chikiri Shijima opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a ceiling.

An unfamiliar ceiling.

He lay there with his eyes half-open. It took a while for his unfocused pupils to regain clarity.

His breathing was light and slow. Beneath the blanket, thick bandages wrapped around his chest, running from his left shoulder to his right ribs and firmly fixing his entire torso in place. Lille Barro's beam had pierced through his chest. Surviving had already been a miracle.

His Reiatsu was still there, but extremely weak, like a lamp dimmed to its lowest setting. It was only enough to maintain his vital signs, not enough even to illuminate his surroundings.

"This is..."

The ward was large, larger than any hospital room he had ever stayed in.

Sunlight slanted in through the window lattice, casting a patch of bright light onto the floor.

At the edge of the light was a long, narrow shadow. A vase sat on the windowsill, holding several wildflowers someone had picked. The edges of their petals had already curled. They had probably been there for days, and no one had changed them.

On the other side of the room was a hospital bed identical to his own. Someone lay on it.

Wang Tuchuan Yuxuji.

Chikiri Shijima watched him for a long time. Wang Tuchuan did not move.

His Reiatsu was even weaker than Shijima's. The only thing certain was that he was still alive.

Chikiri roughly understood where this was.

The Shin'ō Medical Institute, Seireitei's largest medical facility. The place where nobles came for treatment, and the designated facility for captain-class casualties.

He had never been admitted here before the war, but he had heard the name and knew the building's location and standards.

He tried to sit up with both hands.

Not long afterward.

Inside Shin'ō Hall.

The captains of the Gotei 13 stood along both sides of the spacious hall.

The place belonging to Wang Tuchuan Yuxuji, captain of the Tenth Division, stood empty.

Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto stood at the center of the hall.

His gaze swept from the left to the right.

Yachiru Unohana, Shihōin Qianri, Yanyuan Jinle, Chikiri Shijima, Danjiro Obana, Furoufushi Saito, Nobutsuna Shigyo, Bakuzan Katori, Entetsu Kumenoi, Senjumaru Shutara, and Shuichi.

Eleven captains stood along the sides while Yamamoto stood in the middle.

"The Genji School will be reorganized into the Shin'ō Academy."

Yamamoto's voice was not loud, but the dome of Shin'ō Hall amplified every word several times over, making them ring through the hall like a bell. "From now on, this old man will arrange rotating schedules for the division captains to teach the students at the academy."

The hall fell silent for a moment. Then Saito's voice exploded from the line on the right. "Koya! You want me to teach students? What kind of joke is that?!"

Entetsu Kumenoi's voice came from the left, calm and slow, like a stone rolling over mud. "My appearance seems unsuitable for teaching students."

Looking at his face, that was certainly true. He had two rows of large golden teeth without lips, eyes only a little larger than fingernails and entirely covered by a tiny round pair of glasses. He was also completely bald. A captain's haori helped somewhat, and his division had grown used to him, but the students might not.

No one responded to Saito, and no one responded to Entetsu Kumenoi either.

Yachiru Unohana stood expressionlessly among the captains. Shihōin Qianri looked straight ahead. The corners of Yanyuan Jinle's mouth twitched slightly, as if he were suppressing a laugh. Chikiri Shijima had only recently recovered from severe injuries, and his complexion was poor. Danjiro Obana likewise said nothing. Nobutsuna Shigyo stood with his arms crossed. Bakuzan Katori stood quietly in place. Senjumaru Shutara's gaze rested on the beams of Shin'ō Hall's ceiling, and it was impossible to tell whether she was measuring the building's dimensions or simply spacing out.

Shuichi stood at the very end of the line. He still had not fully gotten used to the white long-sleeved haori he wore. As he listened to Yamamoto announce the founding of the Shin'ō Academy and listened to Saito and Entetsu Kumenoi complain, he did not speak.

He did not know what to say. He was the youngest captain present, and silence was the safest approach whenever everyone needed to state their position.

But regarding the matter of teaching students at the Shin'ō Academy, he understood its significance better than anyone there.

Yamamoto did not answer Saito, nor did he answer Entetsu Kumenoi. He stared straight ahead. "The academy will recruit all students with spiritual power from Rukongai."

Yamamoto's voice settled slowly through Shin'ō Hall, each word stamping down like a hammer driving into wood. "Beginning today, this old man will send people out to recruit students."

Saito remained unconvinced. "Recruit, recruit, recruit. Anyway, I'm not interested in teaching students."

No one answered her again, but that did not matter. Yamamoto had come to inform them, not discuss it.

She glared at Yamamoto's back for a few seconds, then shut her mouth. Her purple twin ponytails swayed before settling once more.

Shuichi stood at the end of the line, looking at Yamamoto, then at the captains standing on both sides.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows, shining upon the captains' white haori and turning all of Shin'ō Hall into a tranquil expanse of white.

After the meeting ended, the captains filed out through Shin'ō Hall's main entrance and dispersed in every direction through Seireitei. Some returned to their divisions, some went on patrol, some hurried to deal with accumulated paperwork, and some simply walked quickly. Shuichi walked slowly. He left his position at the back of the line, turned around, and headed toward the inner side of Shin'ō Hall. That was not the exit. It was the direction Yamamoto had gone.

The corridor was much darker than the hall. Sunlight entered through a row of small side windows, drawing long, narrow stripes of light across the stone floor. Dust drifted slowly through the beams. Shuichi walked through the alternating light and shadow, the hem of his white long-sleeved haori swaying gently with every step, while the Zanpakutō at his belt softly bumped against the outside of his thigh.

At the end of the corridor, Shuichi saw a figure. Chojiro Sasakibe stood before a tightly shut door. His Shihakushō was a little newer than it had been on the day of the funeral, but repeated washing was still visible at the shoulders and cuffs. His silver-white hair was neatly combed, and the lenses of his glasses reflected the light from the side windows, obscuring his eyes. He was waiting for Shuichi. From the moment Shuichi broke away from the group and turned toward the inner corridor, he had known Shuichi would come. There was no need to ask, look, or confirm anything.

"Vice-Captain Sasakibe."

Shuichi stopped before him. "I want to see the Head Captain."

"The Head Captain is resting."

Sasakibe's voice was not loud, but it was clear, like footsteps treading on thin ice in winter. "If you have something to say, you can tell me first."

It was not evasion or perfunctory dismissal. Chojiro Sasakibe's status within the Gotei 13 was far beyond what the title "First Division vice-captain" could encompass. He was Yamamoto's most trusted man, the foremost executor of the Head Captain's will, and the final arbiter of matters that did not require the Head Captain to speak personally.

Shuichi hesitated for a moment.

The small windows on either side of the corridor cut the sunlight into alternating stretches of brightness and shadow. They shone on his white haori, making the folds of its long sleeves especially clear. "I haven't been a Soul Reaper for very long. I can't teach students."

His voice was quiet, but the corridor was so empty that the echo of every word was perfectly clear. Shuichi was not being modest. He genuinely felt unqualified. How long had he been a proper Soul Reaper? How long had he been a captain?

The students recruited from Rukongai might be around his age, or even older. What right did he have to stand at the lectern and teach people whose faces were the same age as his or older? He could not even explain how he had learned Zanjutsu himself. Yachiru Unohana had treated him like a punching bag for ten days, and somehow he had learned while being beaten. He could not replicate that teaching method.

Sasakibe looked at him, neither moved nor annoyed by those words. "You are already a captain."

His voice was as steady as if he were stating a law of physics. "Whether it is Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Shunpo, Kidō, or even the use of Reiatsu, you are not someone students who have never learned these things can compare to."

This was not praise. It was fact. Shuichi's Zanjutsu had been taught to him hand in hand by Yachiru Unohana. Silver White Staff, Spider Slash, Ironstone Style, Water-Moon Style, Mist Slash, Bone-Cut—those lost and severed schools of swordsmanship, whose inheritances could not be found even in noble households, had left indelible marks in his muscle memory.

Although his Hakuda had never received systematic training, he could contend with vice-captain-class Quincy on the battlefield. His Shunpo was not refined, but he had no trouble keeping up with their pace. He did not use Kidō often, but he was still at an average standard.

Yamamoto had personally taught him Reiatsu control as well. More than two years of one-on-one lessons—the highest-level private instruction in Soul Society. These were not things he could dismiss because he felt unworthy. They were real, carved into his bones, things no one could deny.

Shuichi's mouth opened slightly, then closed again.

"But I..." The two words caught in his throat. He did not know what to say next.

He was indeed stronger than the students, but teaching required more than merely being stronger. It required knowing how to teach, having patience, knowing how to break down a complex movement into its most basic steps, and being able to spot where a student had gone wrong and provide a way to correct it. He could do none of those things. Sasakibe seemed to read his hesitation from his silence, and his tone eased. He had not become gentler; he had merely lifted a small corner of that official, businesslike shell.

"You only need to teach the basics. The graduation standard for students is not the average level of a captain." Sasakibe's lenses reflected the light, concealing his eyes, but Shuichi could feel that he was looking at him—not judging him, but with a faint gaze that was almost a reminder.

Shuichi considered it. He knew the basics.

The basics of Zanjutsu were gripping the sword, swinging it, and sheathing it.

The basics of Hakuda were punching, kicking, and blocking.

The basics of Shunpo were explosive Reiatsu release through the soles of the feet.

The basics of Kidō were memorizing incantations and gathering Reiatsu.

He had learned these things. Though he had not studied them for long, he had learned them solidly.

When Yamamoto taught him Reiatsu control, he had started with the most basic Reishi perception, step by step, skipping no stage.

Although Unohana had not taught him any particular techniques, those were real combat experiences. They had not been life-or-death battles, but they had already pushed him to the edge of his limits.

The things he considered natural, the instincts carved into his bones that no longer required thought, were lessons students needed to learn from the beginning. He did not need to teach them how to achieve Bankai, how to achieve Shikai, or how to control Zanpakutō abilities at the same time. He only needed to teach them how to grip a sword without letting it slip, punch without spraining their wrists, use Shunpo without falling over, and properly release Reiatsu without blowing themselves up.

Shuichi raised his head and looked at Sasakibe. "Understood."

Sasakibe nodded. Without another word, he turned and pushed open the tightly shut door behind him, then entered. The door slowly closed behind him. Shuichi stood in the corridor looking at the closed door for a while before turning back. Sunlight streamed in through the window behind him, casting the shadow of his white long-sleeved haori across the stone floor before him. The shadow was long, far longer than his body, stretching all the way into the darkness at the end of the corridor.

He stepped on his own shadow and walked out of the corridor.